Christ, Ian, I used to do all those things, and I could still think. “Don’t drink/Don’t smoke/Don’t fuck/At least I can fucking think,” scolds latter-day Cotton Mather Ian MacKaye. Too much parsley, rage, rosemary, and crime. No, I won’t be going to Scarborough Fair. The song’s subject is S&M (oh dear), but you won’t catch me saying, “Thank you mistress, may I have another listen?” What’s there to say about Kiss’ crass disco move? Other than it’s as shudder-inducing as a mail sack filled with Gene Simmons’ used condoms? This one does the same for Linda Blair’s head. “L’Héautontimorouménos (The Self-Tormentor)” You’ll most likely find him at home gazing over his shoulder at the mirror, admiring his cute little bum.ĩ2. Mick Jagger, stalking the midnight streets of London in search of female victims? Right. Cunningham!įinally, the answer to the question “Is the head dead yet?”
On this vapid cover of the Chuck Berry classic these Motor City agitators switch allegiance from Che to Chachi and from the White Panther Party to Happy Days.
The style council lp code#
Is this a simple string of nonsense syllables? Or Morse code for “God help us all”? Somebody told me you had a boyfriend who looked like the girlfriend who wasn’t my boyfriend who dated you last year and I kissed a girl and he liked it. To quote our capitalist oppressors, “Rock the Cashbox!” How fitting that this band of wannabe Sandinistas will best be remembered by the proletariat for a money-making novelty song. Who, if I understand correctly, leaped from a passenger jet at 10,000 feet into sub-zero temperatures on a stormy night in the environs of some of the most rugged wilderness in the country not to make off with $200,000 in ransom money, but to escape the Original Caste’s “One Tin Soldier.” And even on some good days a hearty laugh can be as hard to find as D.B.
Then again, there are countless Lovecraftian abominations out there I won’t turn off simply because they make me laugh.
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If, while behind the wheel of an automobile, this entails running head on into an 18-wheeler full of highly flammable nuclear waste, them’s the breaks. If this means a sprained wrist, so be it. There are gazillions of songs we can all agree are dog turds in burning paper bags, but to my way of thinking a truly appalling song is one I turn off the very second it comes on. One song even took to standing outside my window at night screaming “Thank God I’m a country boy!”Ī brief note on how I chose the songs on my list. Some of my selections have let it be known just how unhappy they are. Some of my selections you’ll agree with, others you’ll disagree with, and still others will make you wonder what dim creature from what low-IQ planet in what slow-witted galaxy spit me out like a watermelon seed with such force that I ended up here, solely to get the whole damn thing wrong. I personally believe my efforts warrant the Congressional Medal of Horror. I’ve had to stomach the unstomachable, bear the unbearable, listen to the unlistenable, and in general audition more musical mortal sins than a talent scout in Hell, and these were the best I could come up with. When the Jefferson Starship sing “We’re knee deep in the hoopla” in perpetual contender for worst song ever “We Built This City,” we know it’s not hoopla they’re singing about, is it?īut I’ve tried, Lord knows, to devise my own list of the Awful One Hundred. Few of us are financially wealthy, but we’re all rich in rock and roll dreck. She was right, of course, and that’s what made it so hard to put this list together.
“‘Ridin’ the Storm Out’ is bong steady,” she said, “but you can flush everything else down the crapper.” This is their story.“There have been tens of thousands (easy) more terrible rock songs than there have been good ones,” famed rock critic my grandmother once said, and in support of her theory she pushed the entire opus of REO Speedwagon my way. Over four albums and 17 singles, The Style Council made a stand and became the standard bearers of progressive soulful pop and social comment. But creatively restless and of inquisitive mind, Paul jettisoned them at their height to form a collective with an eventual core line-up of Paul with Mick Talbot, Dee C Lee and Steve White. As their leader he had become a deity-like figure and for his fans, The Jam's split was unimaginable. In fact, at the age of just 24, he was already a musical veteran with six albums and nine Top 10 singles under his belt with The Jam. When Paul Weller announced The Style Council's arrival in March 1983, he'd come a very long way.
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